


Safe Haven

by StupidSexyWizards



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Light Romance, Spoilers, non-canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-21 18:21:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30025926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StupidSexyWizards/pseuds/StupidSexyWizards
Summary: Running from his crime and abandoned by his friends, Anders seeks shelter from a storm, and finds a warmer welcome than he feels he deserves.
Relationships: Anders/Original Female Character
Kudos: 1





	Safe Haven

Anders hadn’t expected to make it out of the city alive. He hadn’t planned ahead much further than the actual detonation, but he had assumed his options were limited to execution, the rite of Tranquility, or permanent imprisonment in the Gallows – this last option followed swiftly by death by his own hand, if he had any say in the matter. He had been prepared for martyrdom.  
He had not anticipated Knight-Commander Meredith handing his fate over to Hawke. To have to look his friend in the face and see his betrayal writ large in Hawke’s devastated expression. To be told not to face his judgement like a man, nor to fight for a chance at redemption, but simply to leave, as though Hawke couldn’t bear the pain of spending another minute in his company. And, damn it, he had taken that mercy and run.  
Was it cowardice? Shame? The hope that he might yet continue to fight for his righteous purpose? Anders could not say, but as he stumbled through the darkening wilderness he was beginning to consider his punishment to be a death sentence by another name. He had no supplies, nothing he could use for shelter or sustenance, nothing but the clothes on his back which the cold and unremitting rainfall had already drenched. He had been running now for two days, without food or sleep, and he was beginning to feel delirious.  
The tree cover was thinning out, the downpour growing heavier upon him. Anders rubbed away the rainwater from his face and squinted ahead to where he could just make out the silhouette of a small farmstead against the very last of the dusky light. There was a gentle, cosy light emanating from the cottage, but there was also a darkened barn that stood a little way distant. Could he sneak in, undetected, at least to wait for the rain to ease off or his clothes to dry out a little?  
A warning rumble of thunder made up his mind for him. He crept ahead warily, scanning the fenced-off yard for any signs of movement, but all was still. There wasn’t much to the farm, if it could even be called such: one small, single-story cottage; the barn, not much bigger; a chicken coop; and a single furrowed field. It was the first dwelling Anders had encountered since he had left Kirkwall. Just until the storm passes, he told himself. I’ll be gone long before anyone could notice.  
He elected to try and enter by a low window at the back of the barn, fearing that unbolting the double stable doors would cause too much noise and attract attention. Mercifully the window was secured only by a simple inside latch, which Anders was able to unfasten using a splinter of wood he managed to wrest free from a fencepost. Gently he eased the window open and peered into the shadowy interior. He could hear the sounds of livestock shuffling and lowing gently, but he could make out little in the darkness. With painstaking slowness he hoisted himself through the window, his footfall on entering cushioned by soft hay. He softly refastened the window against the storm and waited, shivering, for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. His attempt at vigilance was ill rewarded by his traitorous body which, in the warmth of the barn, against the pile of fragrant hay, succumbed to exhaustion at last.

He did not wake until he heard the gentle knock and slide of wood against wood. It took him a moment to realise, with horror, that it was the sound of the bolt being lifted from the stable doors. Dawn light streamed in from the window above him, but Anders had no time to gather himself and flee before one of the barn doors was pushed open and more light poured in around the shape of a person entering. Anders was frozen, petrified, and struggling to make out the silhouette in front of him. The light let in by the door flashed with strange colours, and around the figure there was a coruscating halo. Was he dreaming?  
The figure clearly was not troubled by the same visual affliction, letting out a brief yelp at the sight of Anders and dropping something on the floor with a metallic clang. Anders held his hands out in front of him defensively.  
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he babbled, “I didn’t, I’m sorry, I’m not here to hurt you, I just, the storm…”  
The figure took a single step towards him. Anders blinked furiously, trying to get his vision clear. He could make out brown hair, in a long braid swept across one shoulder; swishing skirts in cornflower blue, covered with a white pinafore. He was struggling to focus, half-formed thoughts skittering across his agitated mind.  
The woman’s face drifted in and out of focus as she tentatively came nearer. It was as though he could not take in her features all at once. Gentle brown eyes, narrowed in suspicion – or compassion? Pale skin; full, soft lips a dark pink like they were stained with cherry wine. All ringed still in that shimmering light.  
“Are you…?” Anders’ head was swimming. He shuffled back until he was pinned against the wall of the barn. “Who are you?”  
“Shouldn’t I be asking you?” he heard the woman respond. A tuneful, lilting voice that sounded like she was smiling. A faraway echoing sound like they were standing at opposite ends of a cave. Anders heard his heartbeat thumping in his ears.  
“I’m…” he began. What should he say? Where was he? Somewhere he was not supposed to be. Was he someone he was not supposed to be? His eyes felt heavy, like he could fall asleep again any second. Would that be allowed? The smell of the hay. A barn he had played in as a child. His mother in the same cornflower dress. What had she looked like?  
The faraway voice was speaking again.  
“You don’t look at all well,” it said, gently, kindly. “You got caught in that storm? You might have a fever. Let me…”  
A hand reached towards him, leaving behind a glowing trail. Soft fingers touched his forehead. They felt wonderfully cool and soothing and he wished they would stay. He closed his eyes. Someone tutted and the benevolent fingers withdrew.  
“You’re burning hot,” the voice told him. He wanted to sleep. “Can you stand?”  
He felt an arm reach around his back and opened his eyes. With a great effort he turned his head to look at the face of the woman who was now close beside him, one arm braced behind him as the other lifted his hand across her shoulders. Wisps of hair curled behind her ears. A flush in her cheeks like a damask rose.  
“You’re a spirit,” he decided, happy to have hit upon the solution. But she laughed brightly.  
“Come on,” she said, and now her voice was so close it seemed to start from his own mind, not from her mouth. “Ready? 3, 2, 1…”  
He was hoisted to his feet. He didn’t know how she could have lifted him; someone must have changed his clothes for lead. The barn started spinning. The woman let out a soft steadying noise and he felt a gentle push against his back. He tried to take a step in the direction indicated, and just about managed, though his knees felt ready to buckle and he couldn’t stop shivering. Somehow, and slow as growing ivy, they moved across the yard to the cottage.  
A cool room, soft cotton bedsheets. Fabric flowing past his face and a pillow for his head. Maker, he would sleep here for an age. He forced his eyes to focus just enough to make out the woman’s shape, hazy and wavering, folding his robes. Why did she have his robes? Maybe they were hers. Or did he live here? His eyes would stay open no longer and he gratefully let them close. He pulled the covers up about his chin, still shivering. The woman was saying something, but he couldn’t make it out, and drifted into a fitful rest.  
How long he slept, and how deeply, he hadn’t a notion. Sometimes it seemed he was awake, yet he saw things he could only have conjured up in his dreams. People he had known in the Circle, who he had long since thought forgotten. His friends from Kirkwall standing about him, their faces turned away from him though clearly deeply hurt. Pulsing red light and swirling black clouds, remnants of the Chantry’s destruction. His mouth was dry and his stomach growling. The covers over him, comfortable as they were, were a heavier weight than he could hope to lift.  
Some time later he stirred at the sound of a door opening. Prising his eyes open a crack he made out the figure of a woman – the same woman from the barn, he presumed – entering the room, humming a birdsweet melody. Anders could make her out a little more clearly now, though the edges of her form still shimmered with an odd luminescence. She carried a wooden tray which she placed on the floor by the bed, then knelt next to it. Her expression was gentle and kind. She lifted a rounded pewter cup from the tray.  
“Fresh this morning.” she said. “You need something in your belly, and I’ve added some feverfew and willow to cool your head. Here.”  
Delicately she cupped a hand under Anders’ heavy head, lifting it gently and bringing the cup to his lips. Slowly she tipped the cup and Anders tasted rich, creamy milk, which he supped gratefully. There was a sweetness and a slight bitterness both beneath the buttery liquid; the woman must have added something like honey to counteract the curatives she had mixed. Hunger is the sweetest sauce, and Anders had not eaten in days. It seemed the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. Even in his weakened state, he drained the cup. When he was done the woman removed the cup and carefully laid his head back on the pillow.  
“Good,” she said, sounding satisfied. Anders turned his head to get a better look at her. He guessed she was around his age, in her thirties or so; she had a youthful aspect but there were fine creases around her eyes as she smiled clemently at him. Her skin was porcelain pale but for a rosy blush at the apples of her cheeks. Strands of her chestnut-brown hair had come loose from its braid and she had tucked them behind her ears, where they curled slightly at the ends to frame her face. She was looking at him with such tenderness, such unexpected, undeserved compassion, that Anders felt like weeping.  
“What’s your name?” the woman asked him. Anders hesitated. In the time he had been running, could news have reached her about the attack on the Chantry?  
“Johan,” he told her after a beat. It was not, after all, a lie.  
“I’m Fionne,” the woman replied. “You rest up, Johan, and I’ll bring you something more substantial to eat in a bit, get your strength back.”  
Rising from her kneeling position, Fionne moved over to the window and opened the bottom pane a little, letting in a light breeze. As she turned back around Anders asked her  
“Why… are you being so kind to me?”  
She gave him an amused smile, looking a little puzzled by the question.  
“Should I rather have turned you out into the woods,” she asked, “with you running such a fever? I’m not that heartless.”  
Anders closed his eyes, feeling ridiculous tears spring up behind his eyelids.  
“But I’ve done such bad things,” he said, his voice trembling. He heard her sigh softly, and after a pause, heard her feet cross the room to the door.  
“We’ll talk later,” she said gently. “Rest, now.”   
The door closed quietly behind her, and Anders allowed himself to weep.

This time his sleep was deeper, more restful. The combined effect of the curative herbs and the nourishing milk in his belly had settled him and stopped his shivering. He came round and felt a light weight settled on his thighs. Peering down he saw a large tabby cat curled up in his lap, apparently asleep. As it felt him shift it opened its eyes and raised its head, looking up at him with a disgruntled air. Anders lifted himself up onto one elbow and extended a hand towards the cat, which gave him an exploratory sniff before lifting its chin beatifically to allow him to stroke it. He obliged happily.  
He heard the latch click up and saw the door push open gently. Fionne entered with the same wooden tray, the pewter cup now joined by a steaming bowl and a roll of white bread. She smiled at him, and then turned her attention to the cat, giving an exasperated click of the tongue.  
“Oh, Towser!” she tutted, half-turning to place the tray down on a sideboard. “He must have got in at the window. Cheeky…” she moved to the bed, seemingly to remove the cat which gazed at her languidly.  
“It’s alright,” Anders assured her, “I like cats.”  
Fionne put her hands on her hips, frowning at the cat but looking amused all the same.  
“Honestly, he’s supposed to be scaring birds away from the garden,” she complained, “but his real talent is seeking out the warmest place to curl up and take a nap. Wouldn’t we all if we could!” she chided the cat, leaning closer to him and narrowing her eyes. Towser gave a placid chirrup. Fionne turned to Anders.  
“How are you feeling?” she asked.  
“Better,” he told her, “much better. Thank you, I don’t deserve your kindness.”  
Fionne gave a small shake of her head in reply, then retrieved the tray from the sideboard.  
“Can you sit up?” she asked. Anders shuffled experimentally, dislodging Towser who hopped lightly on to the floor and started winding about Fionne’s legs. Anders still felt weak, but he was able to shift to a sitting position, resting against the headboard. Fionne placed the tray on his lap.  
“It’s just vegetable soup, I’m afraid,” she apologised, absurdly, as though he were a guest who might be dissatisfied with the refreshments, “but it should help get you back on your feet. And your clothes are washed and hanging up to dry, they’ll be ready for you tomorrow.”  
Anders looked at the soup in the wooden bowl before him, thick, glossy and the amber yellow of summer squash. It smelled rich and savoury, and Anders found his mouth was watering. He took a spoonful and tasted it, velvet smooth and creamy, lightly salted and flavoured with aromatic herbs.  
Fionne had dragged a wooden armchair from the corner of the room and placed it by the bed, and now sat there, her elbow on the arm of the chair and her chin resting in her hand. She regarded him thoughtfully and Anders felt himself flush slightly. Now that the fog in his mind had started to clear he was acutely aware, not only that he was an intruder on her inexplicable hospitality, but that somewhere along the way he had been stripped down to his undershorts. He took another spoonful of soup.  
“This is really good,” he told her. “You really shouldn’t, I mean… most people would have just called the guard, I think.”  
Fionne gave a light shrug.  
“Like I said,” she replied, “I’m not so heartless as to turn a sick man out into the wilderness. Plus, I’ve an idea of what you might be running from.”  
Anders froze, his heart gripped with terror – so word of his crime had reached here, after all. But Fionne motioned towards the end of the bed, where he now registered his staff, propped against the wall.  
“You’re an apostate, no?” she suggested. “Your robes didn’t look like they were from the Circle.”  
Anders swallowed, his heart still pounding.  
“That didn’t make you twice as worried,” he enquired, “an intruder who’s also an illegal mage?”  
Fionne gave a short, breathy laugh.  
“It made me think you probably weren’t here trying to steal the cow,” she rejoined, grinning. Anders couldn’t help but smile back. Something in her manner was so warm, so open. He felt an absurd, sudden desire to lay everything before her, to tell her everything he had done, every rotten choice that had lead him to her door, to unburden himself of every detail of his guilt and his weakness. He wanted to bare his whole soul before her and let the worth of him rest upon her judgement.  
Fionne’s face turned a little more sombre as she went on.  
“It must be a hard life,” she said, “and worse still, I’d imagine, in the Circle.”  
Anders watched her, warily. It was an uncommon view, in his experience, though one he obviously shared. Most non-mages, and a fair number of mages too, were so afraid of magic that they seemed to consider imprisonment and subjugation a necessity. Fionne looked down at her lap, brushing her pinafore lightly as though to remove some imperceptible dust.  
“My mother…” she hesitated, “… she never really described herself as a mage. Never did anything too… flashy.” She smiled weakly. “Nothing that would attract attention. But people in the village, they’d come to her before they’d send for a doctor or a Chantry sister. And she taught me everything I know about herbs and healing.”  
Anders’ heart swelled. For so long now his thoughts, dominated by that part of him that was given over to Justice, had been only of the oppression of mages, the unjust caging of their righteous power, the cruelty of the Circle prisons. He had lost sight of the beauty, the compassion, the aid that he knew magic could provide. His own clinic he had closed years ago. Hawke had told Anders more than once that he should try and be an example to the Templars and the Chantry, a ‘good’ mage they could look to, to convince them to ease off those in the Circle. He certainly hadn’t lived up to that entreaty. His stomach knotted, and he set the spoon down on the tray, his soup bowl only half emptied.  
Fionne was looking back up at him now with a sympathetic expression.  
“Did someone find you?” she asked him. “And sent for the Templars?”  
Anders didn’t respond. Again, that dangerous urge to tell her the whole sorry story. He found himself craving her sympathy and comfort, though he couldn’t expect her to give it if she knew the truth. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to lie to her, either.  
Unhurriedly, Fionne rose from the chair and removed the tray from his lap, placing it again on the sideboard. She returned to the chair, picking up Towser who was sitting at its feet, and placing him down on her lap, where he kneaded at her legs before curling up and purring contentedly.  
“Where were you running to?” Fionne asked. “Did you have somewhere in mind?”  
Anders shook his head.  
“Just… away,” he admitted. Fionne gave a soft sound of acknowledgement.   
A moment of silence passed between them, during which Anders watched her gently stroking the top of Towser’s head with her index finger. Her face was pensive, a slight furrow to her brow which only highlighted the softness of her other features. Anders found he didn’t want to take his eyes off her. Everything in his life recently had felt insurmountably difficult, sharp edged and grim. For the first time he could recall since he had merged with Justice, he felt his heart aching for something simple, primal and wholly for himself. He wanted to be held, caressed. To feel soft skin against his own; to meet a lover’s lips in a tender kiss, feel their breath against his cheek. He yearned to pull back the covers and invite her into bed with him, so ardently that his hand moved involuntarily towards the top of the quilted bedspread that lay across his lap. He suppressed a shiver of desire.  
She looked up at him then, eyes shining, and hesitated before speaking.  
“Why not stay here?” she offered, affecting a breezy tone that didn’t match the colour that had risen slightly in her cheeks. “Just until things quiet down, I mean. They won’t be after you forever.”  
Anders had already started shaking his head and offering protests, but she went on.  
“I’m struggling to get everything done here as it is, with harvest time coming and the three new kids in the barn.” The words were tumbling out of her in a rush, she having seemed not to hear his reticence or deciding to plough over it regardless. “The woodland here really isn’t thick enough for a hideout, so you’d only end up at one of the other farms, or else Kirkwall or Ostwick, and those are full of Templars.”  
“I really couldn’t,” Anders cut in, “honestly. You’ve already done so much for me, I couldn’t live with myself if I brought you more trouble.”  
Fionne shook her head.  
“No-one will bother looking here,” she said in an assured tone, though Anders knew she was quite wrong. Hers was the first house he had come to on his flight out of Kirkwall; it was certain that the Templars or the City Guard would find their way here soon enough. “Or if they do I can move them along easy as anything. There’s room in the roof of the barn, it’s only hay up there, and supplies I won’t need till winter, I can easily make you up a bed and if we hide the ladder they’d never even think to look.”  
Anders was touched by her insistence, and some part of him desperately wanted to give in. Could he? ‘Just until things quiet down’, she had said. Was it the worst idea in the world? Where else was he planning to go? And if he stayed a little longer, got to know her a little better, let her see a little more of himself…  
She was smiling genially at him now, seeing his resolve was weakening.  
“Really,” she entreated, “I’d like you to stay.”  
Anders’ heart fluttered. He knew he had done nothing to deserve her kindness, her warmth, but he craved it all the same. He longed for her to say it again, that she wanted him there. Longed to be wanted anywhere, by anyone, at last. He gazed deeply into her eyes.  
“If they come looking for me,” he told her firmly, “just give me up. I won’t let you come to any harm.”  
She smiled at him, her eyes gleaming, her face lit with a simple joy that made her look so achingly, damnably beautiful to him just then.  
“I can handle it,” she guaranteed.


End file.
